24 August 2011 - Lakeland Raintrees Caravan Park, Cape York, Queensland

We were not the first up and packed on the morning of 22 August; there were those who did so then parked waiting for the aboriginals who run the ferry to arrive, pretending that they had just driven up rather than stayed gratis in the camping ground. There are always those who will try to rip the system off!

The Northern Bypass was a little better than we remembered however we had heard comments from others that the side of the road for south bound travelers was superior to than on the northbound side. We looked out for Jared’s up-ended car but did not see it. Some days later we heard that scavengers had been seen stripping various useful parts and others had observed a Hilux on a tow truck. Rumours abound concerning the cost of being towed out, ranging from $3,000 to $5,000. The trick is to avoid the necessity and therefore not have to worry which figure is accurate.

 

By nine thirty, we had arrived at Fruit Bat Falls to find ourselves the only one’s there. With cozzies already donned, we were ready to carry out our early morning swim, and headed to one of the big sandy pools above the falls. Dark clouds came over, obscuring the sun and that coupled with the wind did not make the idea of an early swim all that appealing after all. Egging each other on, we submerged ourselves as far as our waists and then agreed that probably qualified as “going for a swim at the Fruit Bat Falls”. As we climbed up the bank out of the river, spots of rain fell, the first in the entire time since had we left Cairns. I was not concerned about getting wet then and there; I was more concerned about the prospect of the camping days ahead in our little tent. However by the time we had emerged from the bush back out on to the Bypass Road, the rain had disappeared and we were once more under sunny skies.

The stretch of road from the northern end of the Southern Bypass Road and the Heathlands Resource Reserve was every bit as bad as we remembered and this lower half of the route as far as Bramwell Roadhouse took us twice as long as the northern half.

We had decided to turn north back up toward the top as soon as we arrived at the Bramwell Roadhouse, but this time on the Old Telegraph Road, and have a look at the first serious river crossing. The first crossing was just one and a half kilometres up and was straight forward and dry. The next, Palm Creek, was a further 2.2. kilometres up and it was here we hoped to see plenty of action. This is one of the crossings that always appears on film clips of the OTR, famous for its particularly steep drops in and out. We set up our chairs and started to eat our lunch but were soon interrupted by a vehicle coming from the north. After some research, and his teenage sons opting to watch from the side with their mother who was the chief photographic recorder of the journey (the preferred role for most women), the driver came on through carefully and without fear as he lurched from one rock to another. He was followed by a young chap with a particularly gung-ho attitude who attacked it like a bull, before his partner could even line the vehicle up in her camera site. The following five vehicles were part of a 4WD club from Victoria who arrived, studied, lunched, observed some more, shifted a few logs about and then came through oh-so-slowly showing patience and caution. Unlike the wild youth, they did not sustain even the smallest damage to their vehicles. It was by then about two o’clock, and we thought we had better head on our south bound journey when another crowd of four crazies arrived in a couple of cars. “Piece of cake”, they said, descended the rocky face and then yelled out, “but you should see this one” and then went into belated consultation. That was when we left them to it. There are a lot of crazy people on the road up here, that’s for sure.

Back at Bramwell Roadhouse, we purchased twenty litres of diesel, rationing ourselves on the more expensive doses, and set off once more, this time travelling only as far as the Moreton Telegraph Station, forty one kilometres south, where we pulled in and set up camp.

In normal fashion, this camp charges the obligatory twenty dollars for two, offering no power and minimal facilities. Here however we did have a once grassy site under the edge of the bush and an expansive open area. We went for a short walk along the Wenlock River, flowing full even in this very dry part of the year, and apparently harbouring a rather large resident crocodile, who did not make himself known to us.

Others providing the entertainment at Palm Creek

The birdlife here was wonderful, we sat late (until about nine o’clock) beside a camp fire built from the last of our firewood gathered from the Bamboo Range on the north bound journey, and passed an average night listening to the noisy nocturnal wildlife all about.

We could have waited until nine o’clock and refilled our diminishing jerry cans with water, but decided not to and travelled south again on the Telegraph Road, coming on to the part of the road we had missed between the Batavia Downs – Weipa shortcut and the main Weipa turnoff. That part of the road was one of the best we had encountered, but it was not long before we were rattling and rolling along the top of the corrugations. We stopped at the Archer River where we had seen locals camping on the way north, this time to photograph this very pretty waterway and to find that the locals do not adhere to the direction of “Let’s not make a tip of the tip”.

The road from the Archer River Roadhouse to Coen was not quite as bad as the northern experience, but still a slow one through kilometres of pitted bull dust. At the Quarantine station we were asked about the fresh produce we were carrying and revealed our one remaining tomato and apple which we explained were for our lunch. The aboriginal officer took his time examining the two items, and on discovering the bruise on the apple, made a rude but true comment, then bade us carry on.

On reaching Coen, we pulled up at the first fuel station to find a “Sorry – run out” sign, to which Chris responded rather rudely, before we realised there was a second station up the street, where we were able to top up again with a further twenty five litres marginally cheaper than that purchased the day before.

The old Mein Telegraph Station

There at Coen, we visited the Heritage House, the old Mein Telegraph Station, now housing a wonderful collection of history of the area. The ground floor was full mainly of stories of the Telegraph route, the troubles the men had in constructing this, having the wires and other materials they had laid taken for spears and whatever else the aboriginals could use it for. The natives were seen as warlike and savage and many of these telegraph stations were built as fortresses for defense against the natives. I guess that after 30,000 years having the place to themselves, the coming of these little white wire laying beavers was somewhat an imposition. The top floor had stories of residents of Coen and the surrounding country, many about aboriginals who had worked on the stations and many who had contributed greatly to their communities. We were glad we had taken the time to call and would recommend this interlude to anyone who is interested enough to visit and learn about Cape York.

We travelled on further south and then around midday stopped and lunched at the side of the road where there was a sealed interlude, and watched the busy ants check out our apple core in a most dismissive manner. We ended up retrieving the little bits, shaking off any curious insects and taking all our rubbish away as we ought.

Finally we reached Laura after having traveled a distance of 441 kilometers for the day. This is not much more than Whangarei to South Auckland and back and so one might consider it little, however let me assure you that driving on these Cape York roads, such a distance is quite admirable. I was tired, although not as tired as I had been a few days ago, and I am not doing any driving! But as Chris says, I am his co-driver and as such have to be very alert. It is I who call: “Dip”, "Corner”, “Vehicle approaching” “Roos waiting to cross the road”, et cetera, and also keep a keen eye in the side mirror for vehicles approaching from the rear, catching a glimpse of their lights through the billowing dust.

The resident goat at the Quilkan Hotel

Laura hosts the bi-annual Dance Festival, the largest traditional indigenous gathering in Australia, and we had missed it by about two months. It also houses the Quinkan and Regional Cultural Centre, from which rock art tours are organised. We chose to stay at the Quinkan Hotel which has a small intimate grassed area behind the pub for campers. It was well away from the main highway and had a good feel about it. No sooner had we set up camp, had dinner and showered in the rather public amenities, that we saw about a dozen roos grazing in the camp. They are mesmerized by torchlight as are possums, and it was quite fun to catch them in the torch beam. There is a resident goat, who looks like he might have been a Brahmin in his earlier life with his great floppy ears, turkeys, chooks, black cockatoos, blue nosed honeyeaters, gallahs and a multitude of other wildlife. By the time we tucked down into the tent, there were several campers in and we expected a noisy night. Whether it was or not, we shall never know, because we both fell asleep at once.

Our camp at Quilkan

This morning we took our time breaking camp with only 60 or so kilometers to travel through to Lakeland. Even so, we still arrived here just after nine thirty and spent some time filling with diesel and refilling the tyres to their regulation pressures. It was just after ten that we checked in, and hitched up the caravan bringing it around into this lovely little campground.

I had left a dozen eggs in the fridge along with bottles of sauces and mustard, and in our absence mould had joined it all for company. Tiny ants had also considered it a good place to camp out, so what with the clean up of the caravan, unpacking of our dusty possessions from the cruiser, resorting everything back to its correct place, it has been a very busy day; at least five hours of work for both of us.

We have now showered (in our ensuite) and will relax over a rare and expensive birthday bottle of wine. If hunger drives us, we will check those eggs out, but neither of us is at all hungry for now.

It has been an awesome trip so far, as is every day. We have traveled 1,943 kilometres along pretty hideous roads, in fact said to be among the worst in Australia, since leaving Lakeland on 13 August and it is fitting that we return to the lap of luxury on this, my fifty seventh birthday.